“Do I even want to know what you did? What kind of mess I’m going to have to try and fix for you?”

  “Nope.” I flash a grin at Camilla before turning back to Anya, the high I’m on bigger than anything I’ve ever had before. “I can clean up my own messes just fine.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Camilla

  The track is dark.

  The city lights in the distance and the full moon overhead provide enough light to make out shapes—the water barriers and their reflective tape, the chain link fences, the red curbs of the chicane—of the racetrack below me.

  I don’t know why I came back here. The paddock has been or is in the process of being broken down so they can be stored in cargo containers and shipped to the next track alongside the cars themselves. The stands have been cleaned up of the trash the crowd left over the duration of the race. Yet, I found myself sweet-talking the security at the gate to enter the facility and make my way up to the press box.

  Was it perspective I needed?

  A chance to decompress and pat myself on the back for overcoming my anxiety and being here this week?

  Elise can go for me, Dad. I have so much to do, it’s not smart for me to leave the office.

  Yeah, that didn’t fly. And in hindsight, I’m glad it didn’t.

  The past few days only showed me that I’m stronger than I thought I was.

  And that is never a bad revelation to have.

  That’s not to say I didn’t have a few flutter bouts of panic from near run-ins with him. Or that there wasn’t a quick retreat to hide in the bathroom stall and remind myself—fuck him.

  But I did it.

  I got through the week with minimal freak-outs.

  I did something I didn’t think I could and am partially mad at myself for letting the fear own me and not attempting this sooner.

  I’m leaving Spain stronger than I was when I walked in here five days ago, and I’ll take those baby steps any day of the week.

  “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  I jump at the sound of a voice at the door. A voice I’ve come to know. I turn and let the sigh fall from my mouth. “You’re on my shit list, Riggs,” I say.

  “Perfect. That seems like a pretty comfortable place for me when it comes to you.” His smile is broad and his eyes are playful. “What are you mad about this time?” He holds out his cell phone. “Should I take notes? Make a list? We wouldn’t want to forget a single thing I’ll need to grovel for later.”

  Most guys become less attractive the more they open their mouth and talk. Riggs, on the other hand, becomes sexier.

  I cross my arms over my chest. A useless form of protection when it comes to him. “The advice post you did last night.”

  His grin is lightning quick and lethal in the handsome department. “What about it? I was only getting a jump-start on what you and Elise were asking of me.”

  “I believe the caption was: Should I or should I not sleep with the boss’s daughter? Asking for a friend.”

  “Yeah. Your point? People had all kinds of opinions. And propositions for me.” He shrugs innocently. “I’d show you, but you might get a little jealous of all of those women wanting me.”

  “Hardly.” I snort. “My point is what you’re implying.”

  “I’m not implying shit. Just asking a simple question to the adoring public.” He bats his eyelashes innocently.

  “People are going to think you’re talking about me.”

  “Let them.”

  I pick up my phone and glance at it. “One point four million people and counting to be exact.”

  “That many views already? I’d say mission accomplished.”

  “No. Not mission accomplished. You weren’t supposed to pick the questions yourself. We are supposed to do that for you. We’re supposed to—”

  “I can handle what questions I answer on my own page. I had Moretti gear on. I made sure the branding and visuals were there. The last thing I like, Camilla, is to be controlled.”

  “Fine. Great.” I throw my hands up, pissed that this has interrupted my peace and quiet. “But you’re not the one who had to answer to her dad if I was sleeping with a driver.”

  Because that wasn’t embarrassing.

  “You’re a big girl. I’m pretty sure your sex life is none of your dad’s damn business. Besides, last I checked, you hated my guts and all you have to do is lie and say that I’m not particularly fond of you. We can stick to that story and all will be good, right?”

  I stare at him for a beat. Open my mouth. Shut it.

  “Why, Camilla Moretti, are you actually starting to like me?” he asks, his smirk leading the way.

  “No.” I scoff. “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t have to. You wear your emotions on your sleeve, and I can see yours for me right there”—he points to my bicep—“like a big ol’ tattoo.”

  “You’re insane.” But I’m laughing and isn’t that something that he seems to bring out of me more than anything else?

  “Perhaps.” He shrugs and winks. “But let’s not tell anyone. We’re busy pretending we hate each other, remember?”

  “That’s not going to stop people from assuming we’re screwing around. Life’s not that simple.”

  “Of course it is. Why complicate it? Sometimes making people guess or wonder adds to the intrigue. There’s a reason in my videos the towel drops every once in a while, but they never get to see what’s beneath.”

  “Oh Jesus. We’re full of ourselves, aren’t we?”

  My comment is met with a grin and that’s it. I hold his stare and take him in. His hair is fresh from the shower. He’s wearing a black V-neck shirt and a pair of dark blue jeans.

  “Why are you up here?” I ask.

  “I could ask the same of you,” he says. “We probably have the same answers. We’re both taking in our first race under our belts in our new positions.”

  “I thought you’d be out partying on the town with your friends.”

  He shrugs. “I went out with them. Watched them kick back a few—I’m in training mode. I’m trying to keep my girlish figure.” He lifts his shirt up to show off abdominals that look like they were cut from alabaster. “You think it’s working?”

  The fact that I have to force my eyes up to meet his says his exercising is most definitely working.

  “You don’t drink during the season?” I ask. Most drivers give themselves a cheat day every now and again. I’m curious what Riggs thinks.

  “Not now, no.” He purses his lips and toggles his head from side to side. “I did promise my friends that we’ll have one night of reprieve, one night of celebration. That’ll be my one slip.”

  “Your friends. Those friends, I presume?” The dare card friends.

  “Yes. The ones you were so nicely mingling with today. Total monsters and arseholes, right?”

  I level him a look. Of course, they weren’t monsters or assholes. They all seemed to be pretty stand-up guys. But I’ll hold my grudge a bit longer.

  “You never answered. You’re here. Why?”

  His expression softens, almost becoming nostalgic. “I don’t know, something drew me back here.” He sets down the duffel bag he has on his shoulder and steps up to beside me so he can get a full view of the track. “Maybe it was the quiet after such an absolute high. Maybe it was your dad’s advice: to soak it all in—each moment as they come. Maybe it was . . .”

  “Maybe it was what?” There’s a quiet calm to Spencer Riggs right now that I’m experiencing for the first time. I saw it pre-race today and simply thought it was his preparation. But it’s here now and there’s something about it, a realness, that’s endearing in a way I don’t want to admit.

  “Maybe I’m just saying goodbye to some old ghosts. Or possibly thanking them. Maybe hoping I can stop finally chasing them. I’m not sure which one’s better.”

  The raw honesty in his tone is unexpected and captivating. The sigh he emits soon thereafter says he wishes he could take his confession back. His attempt to change the subject reinforcing it.

  “Why are you here, Camilla?”

  I fall quiet for a beat and look out over the dark, desolate track and think about earlier today before the race.

  In a startled panic I push open the bathroom door and shut it at my back. My heart races and the anxiety feels like fingers clawing their way up my throat. Closing off my airway. Strangling me.

  Breathe, Cam. Just breathe.

  I can hear my therapist’s soft voice repeating the words over and over as I bend over and put my hands on my knees and focus on my breathing.

  It was the capped head of blond hair I caught sight of and that distinctive laugh I heard from across the way. I stood there frozen as he looked over at me and grinned. Fucking grinned like what happened never happened.

  The panic took hold then. The trembling. The memories replaying through my mind.

  I freeze when I hear the distinctive sound of someone throwing up in the stall on the far end of the bathroom. Before I can pull myself together, the door flings open and Riggs is standing there pale as a ghost, sweat dotting his hairline, and the same shakiness I feel exemplified in his exhale.

  He looks shocked to see me in here. To be caught in a vulnerable moment. But he narrows his eyes at me and chuckles as he bends over the sink, splashes water on his face, and rinses his mouth out.

  “Looks like I’m not the only one who hates race day, huh?”

  “No. Yes.” I close my eyes momentarily and see the urinals to the right of me and realize I walked into the men’s room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Camilla.” His voice stops me and forces me to look up at him.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.” He nods and then walks out and back to his crew.

  The man beside me is no doubt facing something like I am. Earlier today I was convinced it was just pre-race nerves, but then later as I watched him call his mom before he got in the car, as I listened to commentator after commentator remark about his father, I came to the realization that he could be struggling with confronting the memory of his father. The man who had a reputation as a wild and reckless driver. The driver who had been warned numerous times, black flagged by a few others, and who had lost his life in the most horrific way. And Riggs had only been nine years old.

  Yes, I looked him up. His faults. His accomplishments. The criticisms and the accolades. And the pictures of a grieving widow and a little boy who is his spitting image then and now.

  If my assumption is true, the reason I’m up here pales in comparison to the gravity of Riggs’s, but if I’ve learned one thing over the years, it’s to acknowledge that everyone battles something. Even if they’re not equal in scope, they’re still just as poignant.

  “Why am I here?” I repeat. “It’s been a while since I’ve been at a race. It was a lot for me to be here today. To be in the paddock. The garage. Much like you, I’m just giving myself a moment to let it soak in.”

  “That’s why you were having a panic attack in the bathroom?” He narrows his eyes at me.

  “I wasn’t. I—”

  “Save it, Camilla. I’m highly acquainted with what they look like. I know them firsthand because of my mum. You were having one. No explanation needed.” He shrugs. “All I need to know is if you’re okay now.”

  I study him and wonder who this man is. Cocky one minute. Crass the next. Sweet the moment after. Curious constantly.

  “Yeah. I am.”

  He nods. “Good. So why’d you walk away from the family business? The racing side anyway,” he asks.

  Wow. That was a subject change I didn’t see coming. Rather than stutter through an excuse, I go with being vague. “So many reasons.”

  The silence eats up the space and when I turn to finally look at Riggs, he’s taken a step closer, but it’s the look in his eyes that arrests me. Curious. Inquisitive. Concerned.

  “I think there’s one reason in particular, but I won’t push you on it.”

  “Why do you say that?” My back is up instantly.

  His shrug is indifferent but the expression on his face is anything but. “Because we all have that one secret we keep close to the vest. The one we think might ruin us but hope it won’t. The one we hide in bathrooms having panic attacks over. And then add another layer of hope that maybe one day it’ll get better.” He sounds like he’s speaking from experience and for some odd reason, that makes me feel less isolated.

  “Perhaps,” I murmur.

  He turns to face me, leaning his hip against the desk, and studies me intently. “Does yours have anything to do with the paddock, that every time you enter it you look like you’re afraid the boogeyman is going to pop out of somewhere? Is that why you hid in the men’s bathroom?”

  My heart jumps at his words, but I temper my expression to avoid giving anything away. “I don’t think you have any clue what you’re talking about.”

  “Huh. The prized and only child of the Moretti family. The one who was at every race, all the time, like one of the crew. Then she wasn’t. Gone like a ghost. Now she’s back.” He narrows his eyes at me. “A casual observer would think something might have happened to push you away.”

  Is this not his version of pushing?

  “That something being university to make a name for myself?”

  “A name for yourself but you came back to work for the family olive oil business?” he asks, expression smug. “You’re not the only one who can google search someone, Cami.”

  “It’s Camilla.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe I like both.”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to like . . . never mind.” It’s not even worth the argument. And even worse, is it weird that I oddly like the fact that he took the liberty to use my nickname?

  “Why’d you come back to the family empire?”

  “What does it matter to you?”

  “It doesn’t. Just call me curious as to why you left and why you’re back.”

  “I left for school. I left because there was a nasty crash at the race when I was last here and I didn’t like it. It’s one thing to know the sport is dangerous. It’s another to be here when it happens.” The lie is smooth as if it’s been practiced. It hasn’t.

  And the minute the words are out, I realize how fucking callous I sound to a man who sat and watched his father die in a crash.

  “Riggs. I’m sorry. That was—”

  He holds his hand up to stop me, and then speaks as if his history is a different one. “So let me get this straight. You left because of an accident. And then you come back the day after a big one takes the number one driver out. Clear as mud.”

  “You’re reaching into things that don’t exist, Riggs.”

  But his eyes search mine in a way that tells me he isn’t believing a word I say. Rather than argue with me, he just holds his hands up as if in surrender. “I’ll stop reaching.” He smiles softly. “I know what we should do.”

  I look at him leerily. Why is he suddenly giving up so easily? “What?”

  “Celebrate.” He turns his back and digs something out of his duffel bag. I’m surprised to see that it’s a bottle of Dom Pérignon. I start to refute whatever it is he’s going to ask, but he shushes me. “Humor me, Moretti. I think you and I both need to do something to commemorate our first race in F1.”

  “Where did you—ahhh,” I shout out as he pops the cork, which flies somewhere in the booth. It pings off the ceiling at the same time the stream of bubbly liquid spills from its tip and splatters onto my shoes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Riggs

  Camilla’s laughter rings out as she jumps out of the way, and I right the bottle so it stops spilling.

  “Here.” I hold it out to her.

  “What? Right out of the bottle?”

  “Yep. We’re classy like that. Besides,” I say as she takes it. “It’s not like our lips haven’t touched before, right?”

  “Don’t remind me,” she groans and then takes a super long sip straight from the bottle. She hisses when the bubbles hit her nose, her cough turning into a laugh.

  “Hey, I’m not all that bad,” I say as she eyes me over the bottle before taking another sip. I search her face and am glad to see whatever darkened it seconds before is gone and has been replaced with annoyance for me. “In fact, I’m a damn good kisser.”

  She looks over at me, cheeks full of bubbly, and snorts as she swallows her mouthful. “You kiss yourself often, then?”

  “No.”

  “Then how would you know that?”

  She hands me the bottle, and I shamelessly take a large gulp. One drink isn’t going to kill me, right? Besides, the moment feels like it needs it. “I’ve been told that. Before. By many people.”

  “Many. Huh. Could’ve fooled me.” She holds her hand out for the champagne, and I pull it away.

  “You think I’m going to share with you after you insult me?”

  She looks at me. “Imagine that. Being insulted about something you can’t change. My clothes. Your kiss.” She shrugs and despite her words, her smile and tone are playful.

  “Touché.” I hold on to the champagne. I still think she dresses like a tomboy, but hell if there isn’t something about Camilla Moretti that I’m starting to like. Her attitude. Her sass. That slight vulnerability that peeks through every now and again. “And for the record, I am a good kisser.”

  She snorts.

  “Just stating facts.”

  She rolls her eyes and laughs. “I need another drink to simply stand here and stomach this.”

  “I’m not sharing anything when you’re bagging on me.”

  “Poor baby. Did I hurt your ego?” She pouts out her bottom lip and then when I mimic her by rolling my own eyes, she lunges for the bottle I’m denying her.

  I twist my body to prevent her from reaching the bottle. She trips and I stumble, or some cliché movement like that, but we end up chest to chest, our faces mere inches apart.

  The laugh that falls from her mouth stutters to a breathy stop.

  I can feel the warmth of her panted exhale on my lips.